Sweet surrender / A man comes to terms with his wealth

By Novella Carpenter, Special to SF Gate

Published 4:00 am, Monday, April 7, 2008

In December of last year, a man we'll call Joel found himself skidding through a rough patch in life. He and his wife were remodeling their lovely Craftsman-style home in a tony neighborhood in Oakland when he suddenly started to feel guilty. Again. Guilty about having too much money. As a member of a wealthy family, it's something he has struggled with all of his 42 years.

Joel told me about his troubles on the first day of spring while we sat in his backyard. A passionfruit vine snaked up the fence and his tow-headed son monitored the flames in the barbecue pit. A wooden play structure lurked in the corner, mostly forgotten now that the kids were older.

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"I started to ask myself: Aren't you getting a little too comfortable?" Joel narrowed his blue eyes. "Do we really need to do this work on this house?" he said, gesturing at the backside of their home. "I would spit out — in front of the kids — I hate this life!" Joel said, grimacing at the memory.

"It was not good," said his wife, a pretty, small-boned woman with sandy blond hair.

He had struggled with his identity often over the years, but things had been fine for awhile. Why the latest outbreak of guilt? Joel thinks it might be linked to a mid-life crisis but he can't be sure. All he knows is he found himself struggling to find his "authentic self."

Although many of us would be overjoyed to have his problem — too much money — Joel battles with complicated feelings about it. "None of my material needs went unmet, and I've carried a lot of anxiety and dread around that," he explained.

As he prodded the embers of the fire and set out the grill to the barbecue, Joel told me that he grew up in the East Bay as a child of privilege — his mother was an interior designer, his father the dabbler son of a family with oil money. His grandparents were covering Joel's expenses at Northwestern University in Chicago. He planned on studying investment banking or law. His life was laid out for him — he would continue to amass more and more money: The rich would get richer.

However, in a sudden upheaval, Joel found himself several years into Northwestern when his grandparents suffered a change of fortune and weren't able to keep paying his way. So Joel came to back to California and enrolled at UC Davis, where he switched his major to communications, took out loans and worked to support himself. The silver spoon had been removed. And to Joel, it felt great.

He suddenly felt in control of his destiny. Upon graduation, he joined the Peace Corps and was sent to Africa.

"No water, no electricity," Joel said and smiled. "I had to step away from the modern world and know I didn't need it." When he returned, Joel experienced deep culture shock. America was the land of 20 different kinds of cereal, new cars, bright lights and malls. Joel remembers getting off the flight in Los Angeles and getting stuck in traffic. "Up sidles one of those brand new, low slung Mercedes," Joel said, "and the license plate says: 'I DESERV.' That just embodies this idea that we have here. Endless wealth."

While Joel was repulsed by the attitudes of the affluent, he had to admit that these were his roots. And when he met and married his wife, who also comes from a prosperous family, Joel knew his fate was sealed: He would always have tremendous wealth. But how he related to that money, to his mind, was the key to not hating himself.

He and his wife embarked upon a program of inconspicuous consumption. They both became public school teachers, using their cushion of money in order to serve the community. They bought a modest but attractive house for a little under $300,000. Joel pointed out that 14 other people had also bid on the house, but he and his wife won because only they were able to close with cash. Although they could have bought the house outright, Joel explained there's a tax break for having a mortgage, and so they arranged for it to be $1,000 per month — low enough so they can both afford to work part-time.

While talking to Joel and his wife, I realized that if I had as much money as they do, this is exactly how I would handle it, too (after a weeklong caviar binge). They are doing good work, spending time with family — so what was Joel's problem?

Joel considers himself an environmentalist and struggles with what he calls "the horror of what humans are doing to the planet." To that end, he's installed solar panels and drives a vegetable-oil powered car. However, paradoxically, the money that allows him to be financially comfortable — and green — comes from well-known planet-abusers.

"All her money is in GE stock," Joel said, pointing at his wife, as he laid some kabobs across the grill. "And mine is all oil money in Texas."

Though he's thought about switching some of the money into greener investments, his family and in-laws — many of whom are in finance — don't deal with or understand green investing. "I'm not going to request that," Joel said about broaching the subject of environmentally conscious investment. His brother-in-law, who is their money manager, wouldn't understand. "It's not a filter they work with," Joel said, "For them, their job is to keep the money safe and growing."

The growing money pool is intended for their children and their children's children. Joel and his wife told me repeatedly that they consider themselves to be caretakers of this wealth, not the spenders of the money. It's obvious that this is the source of Joel's angst: The money is not clean in his eyes, and yet he doesn't want to squander the next generation's opportunity for wealth.

In the last few months, Joel has taken steps to deal with his anxiety. Ironically, one of the most effective was facing his own coming death. He joined a group whose philosophy is to live as if this is your last year on Earth. Based on the conscious-living book "A Year to Live," by Stephen Levine, the group meets once a month to discuss their progress living in the moment.

They ask themselves questions like "What would you do before you die?" and "How would you live your life?" Joel immediately wanted to quit his job. "But (his wife) asked, then what about us? What about your contribution to this household?" Joel said. "And I realized how selfish all of this could be. I realized I'm tied to these other people — even in death or dying."

As he plated up kabobs and salad and we began to eat dinner, Joel told me how the group had shifted his priorities. He finds himself planting fruit trees in the backyard and taking the kids on backpacking trips. Instead of ignoring his birthday, like he usually does, he had a party at the local bar. It also reinforced something he's always known: "What's that dumb '80s bumper sticker? 'He who has the most toys wins?'" Joel said, "I can tell you, no, that is not right."

While the process reinforced his anti-materialistic convictions, it has also given him perspective on his feelings of guilt. As an example, Joel told me about how he used to dread the luxury family vacations that he and the family were expected to attend. The opulence of the travel — swank resorts in Mexico or Hawaii — always put Joel off. "I've always thought that what they (his relatives) do is wrong," Joel said. "But this year I decided to go, and I told myself I should just surrender."

It worked. Instead of feeling pent-up rage about being pampered and catered to, Joel imagined that this was his last tropical vacation with the family. "I finally recognized that this is precious time spent with the people I love," Joel said. Rather than making a judgment about the fancy hotel in Mexico, he just went along for the ride.

As the coals of the barbecue slowly died, Joel said that in recent days he is feeling much better about his circumstances and that he's finally coming out of the funk from the winter. Now, he would rather spend money in ways that matter to him than feel guilty about it. "I don't have to be a martyr or sufferer because I have all this stuff," Joel said.

We carried our dishes into the house. As I said my goodbyes, Joel remembered a Persian tradition which celebrates the first day of spring. He convinced me — this was his last first day of spring, remember? — to stay and jump over the fire.

This Persian rite of spring is supposed to rid the body of illness and pain from the last year. Joel's wife stood on a chair and easily cleared the barbecue pit when she jumped. Then I went. Joel pushed the chair out of the way, got a running start, and leaped over the smoldering coals. His wife snapped a photo — Joel, frozen in mid-flight, knees bent, arms sprawling, like his burden was really lifted.

A citizen of Oakland, Novella Carpenter reports on food, farming and culture. Her work has appeared in Mother Jones, Salon.com, Edible San Francisco and other publications. Her memoir about urban farming is forthcoming from Penguin Press. She keeps a blog about city farming at: yourcityfarmer.blogspot.com.